


The Night Out

by Val Mora (valmora)



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Conlangs, F/M, Theatre, cases-that-aren’t, implied open relationships, mistaken impressions, peter being a nerd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-13
Updated: 2017-12-13
Packaged: 2019-02-14 05:06:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13000491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valmora/pseuds/Val%20Mora
Summary: Peter does not go to seeBridezillas, or, Your Dream Wedding!with Oxley and Isis, because the Job intervenes.





	The Night Out

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jediseagull](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jediseagull/gifts).



I got the call on my mobile in May, but had been at practice at the time, so I only heard it as a voicemail. 

"Hello, Peter, it's Isis. Oxley and I will be down in London in June for a performance. If you would like to come, or possibly have tea, it would be good to see you again." She sounded prim, and I got the impression she'd been spoon-fed a lot of etiquette manuals at some point, possibly in between cohabiting with her partners rather than marrying them.

I told Nightingale about it over lunch (some kind of Turkish-inspired collection of noodles, yogurt, lamb chunks, and mint: Toby wasn't getting any of this one), and he frowned into his tea.

"It's very suspicious," he said. "What show will they be seeing?"

"I don't know," I said.

"Well, at least find that out. It won't hurt to get more information, especially as she didn't give a date," he said. "And ask Beverley what she thinks."

 

“Isis and Oxley invited me to tea, or the theatre,” I told Beverley, while she was taking a break from a homework set to watch an episode of Star Trek with me while doing her nails.

“Don’t fuck him,” Beverley said.

“What?”

“They’re, like, the _original_ open marriage,” she said. “And they’d probably love to pick you up - wizards, like.”

“Really not interested,” I said, and she grinned at me in approval.

“Well, as long as you make it clear it’s purely platonic,” she said “Or diplomatic. Keeping the peace and all that.”

 

“Oh,” Nightingale said, when I relayed that bit of gossip to him. “I’d hoped those were rumors.”

“You knew?” I said.

“I had my suspicions,” he said. “The county practitioner in the area was unusually reticent on the subject when I went to read up on them, but then, they discussed things differently in those days.”

I’d just bet they had.

“So do you think it’s a political stunt, or testing me for a ménage à trois?” I said, enjoying Nightingale’s wince at my atrocious pronunciation.

“Why couldn’t it be both?” he said. “To tell the truth, though, it’s very unlikely.”

Even so, it was an unsettling thought. My curiosity got the better of me - for the politics, not the third wheel in a relationship - anyway, so I called Isis back and said that while the work schedule might make me cancel at the last minute, I’d be happy to go to the theatre with them.

“Oh, delightful!” she said. “We’ll let you know as things get closer - waiting on reviews, you know.”

I didn’t, but I was clearly right in my impression that they weren’t interested in seeing tourist pap.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Disney really does hire some of the best, where musicals are concerned. But we’re quite out of date these days, so we have to trust the opinions of the Times critics more than I like.”

“Good to be able to make your own judgements,” I agreed, and gently extricated myself from the conversation.

 

Three hours before the play was due to start, and one hour before I was supposed to be meeting Oxley and Isis for dinner, I got a call from a Safer Neighbourhood Team. I won’t say where from, in order to save their reputations, even though they _really_ don’t deserve it.

I called Isis up to tell her, and she said, “Well, is the Nightingale available?” 

I said that he was, not adding that it was thanks to yours truly, and passed the phone over. Nightingale expressed characteristic surprise, but admitted he would be willing to take my place as their guest, and hung up. 

“This,” he said, as we parted ways, “will be interesting.”

“He likes architecture,” I said.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Nightingale said, and drove off in the Jag to my evening out.

 

The Safer Neighbourhood team were worried about some occult symbols that had been spray-painted onto the sidewalk by some vandals in, according to the luckless PC who’d probably spent the last two days going through CCTV, face masks.

The symbols looked weirdly familiar, but they definitely weren’t occult, and they definitely weren’t Elvish à la Tolkien. It also wasn’t inspired by Aleister Crowley, John Dee, or any of the other mainstream occult suspects, because I’d gotten very familiar with those in the last couple of years. I took a couple of photos and did my Initial Falcon Assessment just so I could say I’d done it, and so that there wouldn’t be any unpleasant surprises later.

The sidewalk had had someone trip and fall a few years ago - phantom pain in the ankle, and what sounded like a soundtrack courtesy of Madonna - and a few paces away, the smell of a barbecue grill and the wagging of doggy tails, plus the usual London background noise. Nothing really unusual.

I told them I didn’t think it was my shout, just creative vandals hiding their identities from the CCTV, but that I’d check my resources and see what came up.

By that time, Nightingale, Oxley, and Isis were well done with dinner and halfway through the play, some light comedy entitled “Bridezillas, or, Your Dream Wedding!” based on the adventures of a wedding planner. Apparently it was a two-woman show.

I got back to the Folly and fired up a nice Wikipedia list of conlangs - I couldn’t shake the feeling I’d seen that text before - and got to searching.

  
  


Nightingale found me watching Star Trek in the tech cave.

“Not an exciting case, I see,” he said, taking a beer from the supply in the fridge and regarding Seven of Nine and Chakotay with a mix of confusion and curiosity. “What happened to her eye?”

“She’s part robot,” I said. Beverley hadn’t really been interested either. “And it wasn’t our shout.”

“What was it, then?”

I gestured to the screen. “Made-up alphabet from an alien species,” I said. “From this show, even.”

“Ah. The play was quite good.”

“Good,” I said, and thought I did a good job of hiding my disappointment. 

“Yes,” he said. “It seems that Oxley and Isis know the actresses somehow and procured you and Beverley tickets to a later showing this weekend.”

“No,” I said, disbelieving.

“Indeed. I think they rather expected you to have to cancel. Apparently the tickets are at will call.”

“Nice of them.”

“Quite,” Nightingale said.

 

The play really was very funny. Bev and I especially liked the bit where the wedding planner got to elope at the end.


End file.
